


No Love (Or The Other Thing)

by TheDarkSideofEnergon



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Falling In Love, First Time, Hopeful Ending, Kissing, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, One Night Stands, Sad, Spark Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Tactile Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 01:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21090944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkSideofEnergon/pseuds/TheDarkSideofEnergon
Summary: They all had a reason for doing what they did. Sometimes it was love, sometimes it was lust. Sometimes, it was neither.Inspired by a Mina Loy poem.





	No Love (Or The Other Thing)

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t put it in the tags, but there’s a couple brief discussions of possible/implied miscarriage in Knock Out’s section + the intermission directly between that and Drift’s tale. It’s not real, there was no kid and it was part of a plan, but it is there, just in case mentioning that bothers anyone.
> 
> This is un beta'd as heck. I do this all on my own. Also, I haven't written anything really more than vaguely suggestive in like... four years. At least. So.

_No loveor the other thing_

_Only the impact of lighted bodies_

_Knocking sparks off each other_

_In chaos_

_\-- Lines 6-10 of _Songs to Joannes XIV_ by Mina Loy_

* * *

_They were the survivors._

_Three mechs sat around the table, each staring into their own drink, socializing but not. Not a single one belonged here, all dragged from their own universes long ago. At this table, it was silence. To speak was unnecessary. The bar kept buzzing around them, the long-hoped for truce being celebrated at every table but this one._

_No. This table was for the survivors._

_A white and red mech with sharp finials, built for speed, wearing a gray Autobot brand._

_A white and black mech with a blue visor, still wearing a red Autobot brand._

_A cherry-red mech, polish flawless, unbranded._

_Everyone ignored them as they buzzed around. Nobody had time for three mechs who sunk their grief into high-grade and processors._

_Finally, the one with the blue visor spoke._

_“Ya know,” he slurred, “’S not tha’ bad when ya think about it.”_

_The other white mech looked up. “Jazz.” He warned._

_Jazz shook his helm. “At least ya got time with him, Drift. Real, actual time. And ya did too, Knock Out.”_

_Knock Out just dipped a claw in his drink and swirled it around. “I did.”_

_“Ya know wha’ I got? One night. One _fragging_ night.” Jazz’s hand came down on the table, making Knock Out flinch and Drift sigh._

_“Jazz. You’re drunk.”_

  
  
_ Jazz shook his helm again, before pausing. “Well, yeah. But ya know wha’?” He grinned. “I think we should talk ‘bout them.” His voice was breaking even as he spoke._

_Drift reached out for Jazz, to place a hand on his shoulder, but Jazz shrugged it off. “Really, why’d I get involved wi’ him in th’ middle o’ a Primus-forsaken war?”_

_Drift shook his helm. “Jazz. Wallowing won’t bring him back.” He said, quietly._

_“Maybe I wan’ t’ wallow.” Jazz hissed. “Maybe I wan’ t’ tell somemech so tha’ Prowler will b’ remembered better.”_

_Knock Out sighed. “You’re buying me another drink if I’m going to listen about your love life.”_

_Defeated, Drift shook his helm, and Jazz grinned maniacally as he lifted his hand to signal the barkeep. “Deal.”_

* * *

Jazz tossed the datapad down on Optimus’s desk. “No.”

Optimus sighed. “Jazz, I know you are used to working alone, but if you stop to think—”

“No. I am not turnin’ over command t’ a tactician.”

“You are not. He is merely here to act as my SIC, to take some of the burden off of you, and to assist you with planning safer missions.”

“Tacticians aren’t willing t’ make th’ hard calls, OP.” Jazz’s visor darkened. “How many mechs has this tactician o’ yers had t’ leave behind for th’ sake o’ th’ mission? How many has he had t’ tell tha’ their intended won’t be comin’ back right before th’ explosion? How many conjunxes has he held in th’ moments before ya know tha’ their other half is gonna offline an' probably take them along?”

A voice spoke behind him.

“Three hundred and fifty nine.”

Jazz spun around to cold blue optics, high, swept back doorwings, and black and white plating like his own. Jazz’s processor caught up with his optics.

“So yer Prowl.” Jazz crossed his arms.

“Jazz…” Optimus warned, but Prowl spoke up.

“The total answer to your questions is three hundred and fifty nine.”

Jazz scowled, before spinning back around to Optimus. “‘M formally disapproving o’ this.”

Optimus sighed and rubbed his optics. “Noted, Jazz.”

Without another word, Jazz spun on his heel and stalked from the room, refusing to look at Prowl.

He didn’t need a Praxian keeping an eye on him. Even if said Praxian was hotter than the Pits themselves.

Nope. _Never_ going there.

And then, forty-five vorns passed. The war had gone badly, the Autobots stuck on the moons of Cybertron, while the Decepticons reigned below, on the planet itself. Tomorrow was the day that the shuttle would return to Earth for supplies. Jazz hung around in the corridor near Prowl’s quarters, debating on whether or not to ring the doorbell.

His choice was made for him when the door suddenly opened, to Prowl’s stiff doorwings and haggard face.

“Jazz, if you don’t stop pacing and come in, I’ll never get any recharge.” He grumbled.

Jazz stopped. “How did ya…”

“Red Alert commed me to say that you were pacing.” Prowl stepped to the side. “Inside.”

Jazz didn’t hesitate, stepping inside with a glare up at the nearby security camera, which stared back impassively.

Prowl shut and locked the door behind him, then turned.

“What do you want, Jazz?”

“‘M sorry fo’ bein’ an aft all these vorns.” Jazz blurted out.

Well. It was out now.

Prowl’s doorwings dipped for a second, twitching. “You’re… sorry?”

Jazz crossed his arms. “I am.”

The two stared at each other for a moment.

“Then…” Prowl trailed off, optic ridges coming together, furrowed.

“Wha’?”

“Why have you spent the past forty-five vorns ogling my doorwings, aft, and making passing remarks as to how much you’d like to get under my plating, without ever making good on those promises?”

Jazz blinked behind his visor. “I was flirtin’. Yer… not unattractive, if ya hadn’t noticed. But ya never said anythin’, so…”

Prowl’s doorwings twitched again. “Did you not pick up on my acceptance of your proposition ten vorns ago?”

“Yer…my… _what_?”

“You said, and I quote, ‘Maybe I’ll take you back to my berth tonight, twist those doorwings until you scream my designation, and finally see that spark of yours.’” Prowl emphasized this with more vigorous twitches of his doorwings.

Jazz, for once, was at a loss for words. “Guh?” He managed, eloquently.

Prowl took a step forward, into Jazz’s personal space, backing him against the wall with a soft _clang_. “I accepted. But you left with someone else.” He said, doorwings and voice going stiff.

“Was I drunk?” Jazz asked, racking his processor for the mentioned incident.

“No.” Prowl hissed, sliding one hand up Jazz’s chassis, the other going next to his head.

Finally, with sudden, horrifying clarity, Jazz recalled the night Prowl was talking about.

“Tha’ weird pattern ya made wit’ yer doorwings was an _acceptance_?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was a rejection, wit’ how Smokescreen an’ Bluestreak were snickerin’!” Jazz’s engine whined, suddenly registering just how close Prowl’s lips were to his.

“You know better now, don’t you?” Prowl hissed again, dipping just a little closer, Jazz’s engine turning over unhelpfully. “So ask again.”

Jazz swallowed, staring at Prowl’s lips, then smirked, raising his optics to Prowl’s, his confidence flooding back.

“Prowl, _Prowler_.” He whispered into Prowl’s audial, making his engine rev. “How would ya like m’ t’ make ya scream m’ designation, make ya overload until ya can’t anymore from both those wings an’ yer spark?”

Prowl growled. “Do it.”

Then their lips met in a harsh crash, all denta and glossa, both fighting to claim the other before the other could. Prowl pushed Jazz further into the wall, using his weight to hold Jazz down, whose engine revved more. “Prowler.” He hissed into the kiss.

“I thought you were going to _do_ something.” Prowl hissed right back.

Jazz, mustering up all his strength, pushed Prowl off of him and toward the berth. Prowl didn’t resist, even when his knees hit the berth and he fell backward onto it, doorwings spreading automatically so as not to crush them. Jazz swung a leg across him, straddling his hips, bending down to claim another harsh kiss.

Then his hands began to move, slowly, playing with every wire and cable they came across, slowly trailing down Prowl’s plating, then back up, coming to rest on the doorwings lying there.

Prowl hadn’t been idle either, his hands gripping onto Jazz’s narrow hips, dipping fingers into the seams and wires hidden there, making Jazz’s engine rev, his vocalizer spit static, and drawing moans from him on occasion.

Prowl had yet to make a sound, but his engine was roaring and his fans had long since switched on. Jazz, not so far gone in his charge yet so as not to notice, leaned down to Prowl’s audial, moving his hands to the doorwings and ghosting them up and down along the edges, almost touching but never doing so, Prowl’s vents becoming ragged, unsteady as he tried to twitch his wings up into the touch, but Jazz pulling back before he could.

“Scream, Prowler.” Jazz whispered before pressing down on the hinges and activating the magnets in his servos.

Prowl’s helm snapped back into the berth. “JAZZ!” His back arched, frame sparking with the pent-up charge, his voice staticing out. He collapsed back down, resetting his vocalizer.

Jazz didn’t stop. His servos began their trek back up the doorwings, now touching in seemingly random places, making Prowl’s now-distracted tactical center work overtime to try and predict the next location, never quite making it before the next magnetized touch, making him moan as his charge built back up, eager after so many vorns alone, before a harsh pinch to the tips of them released it once more. Jazz’s fans were running full-blast now, his engine long ago having reached its limit.

Finally, Prowl’s tac center gave him a new option, and, moving quickly, he brought his legs up and wrapped them around Jazz’s waist, rolling and flipping them so that he was now on top of Jazz, and his face broke into a grin as he looked at the stunned saboteur underneath of him, still with magnets on, still trying to reach Prowl’s doorwings. Prowl grabbed his hands and pinned them to either side of Jazz’s helm.

“It’s my turn now.” He whispered in Jazz’s audial, making Jazz gasp and try to squirm away.

“Yes, Prowler. _Please_.” His voice whined, static.

Prowl’s helm dipped down, and he licked along the cables in Jazz’s neck, biting down on one lightly, making Jazz gasp. Prowl licked at the spot before continuing his explorations down Jazz’s frame. His glossa flicked into every seam he could find, tracing slow circles around Jazz’s headlights, lower, lower… A nip to another sensitive cable in Jazz’s side ended it, Jazz overloading with a scream of his own.

“Prowl… _Prowler_.” He moaned, riding out the last of that batch of charge.

“Yes, Jazz?” Prowl’s voice was right next to his audial again, and Jazz bit back another batch of static.

“_Please_.” Jazz’s chestplates slid aside, leaving the blue-silver light of his spark on display. He would see Prowl overload one more time tonight, and that was a promise.

Prowl, not immediately opening his own plates, dipped his fingers into the corona, making Jazz’s back arch into the touch with another scream. Prowl’s chestplates transformed, revealing the pure blue glow of his own spark.

“You did promise me a spark overload, didn’t you?” Prowl hummed as he brought their chests together, pushing their sparks into one in the center of them. Neither held back, optics whiting out as their beings became one, for a brief instant, neither wanting to go further than pleasure, but each seeing something deep inside — maybe this could happen again, sometime. Down the road, maybe.

Jazz didn’t leave when their chestplates finally closed, leaving the room in darkness again. Prowl could have easily kicked him out, but instead, he turned onto his side and dragged Jazz back against his chest, so that their faces were only a few inches apart.

“Stay.”

“Sure.” Jazz mumbled, already falling into recharge. “Round two in th’ morning. An’ ya’d better come back. I know I’ll keep survivin’ if I can d’ _this_ again.”

Prowl chuckled.

* * *

_Knock Out and Drift sat, silently, playing with their empty glasses. Jazz was staring at his fifth drink of the evening._

_“Oh, to pits with it.” Knock Out huffed after several kliks of silence. “I’m still not drunk enough for this.” He raised a hand to signal for another drink, and after downing it in one, started to speak._

* * *

Knock Out checked the paint on his claws while Breakdown shifted from pede to pede.

“But…you want to _what_?”

Knock Out huffed. “Really, Breakdown. It’s not like you’re not practically living at my place anyway.”

“But we’re just friends—”

“Best friends who have been seen leaving each other’s apartments at odd hours.”

“But those were innocent.”

“Really? So you call fondling my bumper _and_ aft—”

“Fine!” Breakdown almost shouted, before lowering his voice at the looks from other visitors to the park. “So why are we doing this?”

Knock Out sighed and crossed his arms, leaning back against a tree. “Basically, I’m going to get sent back to Velocitron if I can’t find a way to renew my card. I got rejected last time, and I’ve got less than two deca-cycles until I’m officially illegal. Lots of my neighbors already know you come around, so it won’t look like a convenience bonding.”

“But it is.”

“But they don’t _know_ that. For all _they_ know, we’ve been intended for vorns. I got sparked, we moved the date up. It’s flawless.”

“Wait, you’re sparked?”

“No.” Knock Out groaned. “I’m _pretending_ to be.”

Breakdown blinked once or twice before shaking his helm. “Alright, alright. So you’re _knocked up_,” — this made Knock Out groan again, bringing a hand to his helm. Breakdown grinned before continuing — “And we’ve been informally intended since before I moved here to be a construction worker, so it’s as good a time to get it finalized and bond as any.”

Knock Out nodded. “That’s the short version.”

Breakdown ran a hand over his helm. “Alright then. I guess I should probably propose, shouldn’t I? Take responsibility like a good sire?”

Knock Out smirked. “Oh, Breaky, I never thought you’d ask.” He purred, making Breakdown roll his eyes.

“You want the whole pin and everything?”

Knock Out sauntered over to Breakdown, slipping something vaguely box-like into his hand. “Got you covered.” He wrapped his arms around Breakdown’s neck, smiling up at him.

Breakdown couldn’t help but smile back at the mech he considered his best friend. “Here good?”

“Wait twenty kliks. There’s a religious picnic happening over on the other side of the lake. I figure we meander over, find a nice tree…”

“You want witnesses.” Breakdown summarized.

Knock Out grinned. “Happen to know my next-door neighbor is one of them. She’s the one who mentioned it to me. The priest will also be there, and my neighbor is a romantic…” He trailed off with a wink.

Breakdown chuckled. “You may be my best friend, but I love you sometimes.”

“Everyone does, Breakdown.” Knock Out spun around, showing off his aft. “Come on, _sweetspark_.”

Still chuckling, Breakdown looped Knock Out’s arm through his own and steered them toward the lakeside path. They didn’t speak on the way over, just enjoying being out with each other, despite the reason for being so.

Finally, the picnic was in sight, and Knock Out subtly pointed out the femme who lived next door to him, and Breakdown led them to a tree within her line of sight.

“You ready to do this.”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Knock Out leaned against the tree, playing the part of a love-struck mech out on a date. “Hit it.”

Breakdown smiled wryly, a facial expression that the picnicking mecha wouldn’t be able to see from their position, and, pulling out the box, got down on one knee and opened it. “Knock Out, would you bond with me? Finally?” He added with a laugh. Knock Out’s lips twitched, even as he delicately placed a hand over his mouth.

This move caught the attention of several picnickers, who nudged their neighbors. Several were now riveted on the scene in front of them, many grinning.

Knock Out, ever the thespian, with a quick peek to make sure he had his audience, nodded vigorously. “Yes, of course I will.” He gasped out.

Breakdown stood up, and, letting the pin magnetize over Knock Out’s spark chamber, mumbled “Sorry” before bending down and gently kissing Knock Out on the lips.

Knock Out wrapped his arms around Breakdown’s neck. “Make it look good,” he mumbled into the kiss. One of Breakdown’s hands came up to the back of Knock Out’s helm, pulling him in a little closer.

The sounds of cheering met their audials, and they broke apart, seemingly embarrassed. Knock Out’s neighbor came over.

“Oh, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted this for the two of you. You always seemed so much happier when he was around, and now I know why.” She babbled. “So when’s the ceremony going to be?”

Breakdown rubbed the back of his helm, and Knock Out managed a sheepish smile. “Well, as soon as we can. There was a little bit of an… accident, you might say.”

The elderly femme blinked, before her optics widened, and she grinned. “Oh. Oh.”

Breakdown broke in. “We’ve been unofficially intended for most of our functionings, so we’re really just making it official now.” He mumbled, repeating the story.

The femme nodded. “But if you’re sparked… how long until it emerges?”

Knock Out took over again. “Well, I just realized a couple orns ago. The doc said if all goes well, about another eight deca-cycles.”

“Then you don’t have much time at all!” She exclaimed. “If you’re really in a hurry and don’t want a lot of expense — and I’ve seen how you live, dear, it’s all that paint you buy — we’ve got our priest right here. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“Thank you. I’m just a construction worker, and Knock Out here’s out of a job, so we are a little tight on funds, especially with the sudden bitlet on the way.” Breakdown managed to get out.

The femme grinned, before she turned to go grab the priest. Knock Out winked surreptitiously at Breakdown.

_Exactly_ to plan.

Later that night, after packing up Breakdown’s few belongings — he wasn’t much more of a sentimentalist than Knock Out — they came back to Knock Out’s apartment.

Knock Out opened the door and grinned up at Breakdown. “Carry me over the threshold?” He teased.

Breakdown snorted, before scooping Knock Out up. “You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s tradition.” He insisted, even as Breakdown set him gently down on the other side before locking the door behind them. “So is the first night.”

Breakdown blanched. “Do we have to?”

Knock Out shrugged. “It’s not like we haven’t messed around before.”

“But those were just tactile—”

“Breakdown.” Knock Out said, softly. “Remember that part of our story is that I’ve gotten sparked. If they ask to see our sparks…”

“They need to not be sealed.” Breakdown finished, looking down at his pedes.

Knock Out nodded, also looking down. For all he talked up a raunchy love-life with Breakdown, and occasionally other mechs, the truth of the matter was that neither had ever felt the need to get their sparks involved. When anyone asked, they had just said it was an “open relationship” for tactile but subtly implied their sparks were for each other so as not to have to bare them. It wasn’t common for Velocitronians to spark-play until bonding, since their sparks, for some reason unknown to even scientists, had a tendency to bond unexpectedly. It was a real horror to wake up to a one-night stand and realize you were conjunxes now, so most Velocitronians just didn’t risk it, Knock Out and Breakdown included.

Another problem occurred to Breakdown. “How are we going to deal with the fact that there’s no other spark next to yours?”

Knock Out shrugged. “Sparks don’t separate from the parent spark and become their own orbiting spark until the fourth deca-cycle. I’ve implied I’m almost three along, so we have another deca-cycle to get the reviews over with. After that…” Knock Out trailed off for a moment before clearing his throat. “Well, not all Velocitronians are able to carry to term. Sometimes, the danger persists until the sixth deca-cycle.” He mumbled.

Breakdown looked a little ill now, but nodded. “You’ve really planned this out, haven’t you?”

“It’s always been a possibility that this would happen, Breakdown.” Knock Out replied, playing with the edge of a blanket on his sofa. “And I’m nothing if not a survivor.”

Breakdown rubbed his optics. “Then I guess we’d better make it good for the neighbors.” His smile was thin, but a small amount of humor backed it.

“I like how you think.” Knock Out’s grin was thin as well, but carried that light humor behind it.

Almost as one, the two moved towards Knock Out’s… _their_ berthroom. Shutting the door behind them, Knock Out laid out on the berth, looking up at Breakdown, now towering above him.

“It’s just a bit of fun.” He whispered. Breakdown nodded, sitting down next to Knock Out’s hip and running a hand over it, dipping into the seams below. Both mechs needed to be on the verge of overload to bond, and the intention had to be there. And a medic would have to verify their bonding, so it needed to be the real thing.

“Just a bit of fun.” Breakdown repeated, dipping down and capturing Knock Out’s lips with his own, sweet and chaste.

Knock Out’s engine revved, and his glossa darted out to lick along Breakdown’s lower lip. “Make it good. But don’t damage the paint.” He whispered, before his back arched as Breakdown found _that_ cable deep in his hip.

“Of course.” Breakdown whispered back, chuckling despite himself.

Then there were no more words, just light moans and whimpers from Knock Out as Breakdown played with Knock Out’s frame, tracing every sensitive seam, trailing light kisses down his chassis, still sitting to one side. Trying to bring Breakdown’s charge up from his position, Knock Out used his claws to their best advantage, finding smaller wires deep in Breakdown’s joints, tweaking them, now leaving light scratches on his back. Finally, out of places to reach, he sat up, moving to Breakdown’s lap, who wrapped one arm across Knock Out’s hips and the other hand coming up to his helm, running fingers along the crisp fins, kissing Knock Out’s lips again.

They traded kisses for awhile, slowly ramping up their charge, two best friends with very, very light benefits doing their best to stay together. Knock Out licked along Breakdown’s neck, causing his fans to kick on. Breakdown pulled on that cable again, causing another rev.

“Breaky.” Knock Out gasped. “I’m… I’m almost there.”

“Need more.” Breakdown gasped as Knock Out trailed his glossa along the clear glass of Breakdown’s headlight, making Breakdown moan for the first time that evening, before moving a claw there, lightly scratching the glass as his mouth moved to Breakdown’s neck, nipping at a cable here, soothing it with a stroke of his glossa there. Breakdown never stopped moving his hands, keeping Knock Out’s charge from dissipating.

A few more kliks, and Breakdown shuddered, opening his chestplates, his yellow sparklight trickling out. Knock Out’s red soon joined it, both dimmed by their seals. Breakdown gently lowered Knock Out back onto the berth, covering his frame with his own.

“You ready?”

“I’m glad it’s you, Breakdown.” Knock Out shuddered and gasped as Breakdown pressed two fingers to the seal, Knock Out pushing a single claw to Breakdown’s.

“And I you.” Breakdown whispered right in Knock Out’s audial as they simultaneously punctured their seals, screaming in pain and immediate pleasure as their sparks, on the verge of overload, raced toward each other, knitting together at their cores, becoming one spark for a eternal second in time, as the two screamed through their overloads, calling out each other’s name.

* * *

_Jazz was leaning on the table, helm down, turned to the side to stare at Knock Out. “Tha’ sucks, m’mech.” He said._

_“It was easier with him here. Even if we were just friends, really, for most of it… he was handy with a buffer, and it was good company.” Knock Out traced the rim of his glass._

_A thought occurred to Jazz. “Wha’ happened t’ th’ bitlet?”_

_Knock Out actually chuckled. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He winked, thinking of a small picture in his subspace, of a pair of twins, hidden away on another planet once the war broke out — both speedsters like him, one yellow and one red. That first imaginary sparkling had never materialized, an “unfortunate medical problem” having caused the spark to reabsorb, but they hadn’t been sorry when the unexpected one happened, and were even less unhappy when it split in the eighth deca-cycle. It had happened on one night when both were a little drunk, needing some comfort after a bad bit of news from Velocitron — the rust plague had hit. Everything they had known was gone, but those two had come from it._

_He looked at Drift. “So, from one widower to another….” He trailed off, wanting out of his own thoughts._

_Drift sighed, staring into his glass of mid-grade. The other two, so far gone by now, didn’t realize that Drift hadn’t had a single drop of high-grade all evening. Ratchet wouldn’t have wanted him to go back down that rabbit-hole. So he felt everything, in sharp detail, not willing to spend even a night in denial._

_“You all know the official reports of the _Lost Light.”

_Jazz fixed him with a stare. “But m’mech, wha’ _happened? _Ya just came back as a _thing. _Nobody knows what th’ frag _happened.”

_“We fell in love.” Drift said, quietly._

_“But tha’s no…” Jazz, so far gone in his high-grade by this point, slipped into recharge at the table mid-sentence, and Knock Out sighed._

_“I’ll get him.” With a raw strength not usually in his frame — probably a result of personal modifications meant to help him with his medic duties — Knock Out picked up Jazz, who curled into Knock Out’s warm plating._

_Drift looked up at the pair. “You can get him home?”_

_Knock Out shrugged. “Hardly. I’ll take him home with me. I’ve got the supplies there to deal with the processor ache in the morning.” Knock Out grimaced as light nausea washed over him. “I might need those supplies.”_

_Drift’s face twisted into a wry smile. “Be safe out there.”_

_“Will do.” Knock Out gave a nod to the bartender, who just raised a hand in farewell, before taking Jazz out the door, comming a public transport as he did so._

_Drift was left at the table, alone, before he sighed, stood, tossed a few credits onto the bar to close his tab, and walked out into the night._

_Angling toward the canal that cut through the center of New Iacon, he walked along the trail, staring at his pedes until he reached a little rise, and, turning aside, climbed the hill to the clearing with a single bench placed up there by some enterprising mech. Sitting, he finally raised his optics to the stars, knowing that Ratchet wasn’t up there, but down in the Well in some other universe, or maybe all universes, but allowing himself to slip into old memories._

* * *

“Come back. If not as an Autobot… then as a friend.”

Drift blinked. Never, in any universe, would he have expected Ratchet to call him a _friend_. Maybe a mildly-tolerable crewmate. Not a friend.

“Okay.” Drift responded, and Ratchet’s optics lit up, his hand still on Drift’s shoulder.

“Okay.” Ratchet repeated, before venting. “Now to get off this planet.”

“Well, do you have a shuttle? Because I don’t anymore.”

  
  
“Oh.” Ratchet looked at Drift, who’s lips started to twitch, before he started giggling, Ratchet following him shortly afterward.

“I suspect Gigatron had a shuttle somewhere. They wouldn’t have left it back in there.” Drift jabbed a thumb back at the crater that was all that was left of the monastery.

“Lead the way.”

Sure enough, there had been a shuttle about two kilometers away, and they got on it, the shuttle starting up with minimal effort. From there, it was a short jump back to the Galactic Council, where they recovered Ratchet’s shuttle and sold the other one.

Drift stepped on board the small shuttle and looked around. There was a single door, leading to a washrack, and two berths built into the other wall, each built for one. The captain and co-pilot’s chairs were the only other seating in the ship.

Something on the dash caught his attention, and he moved to pick it up. Turning it over, he saw that it was a small figure of… himself? Drift’s vents caught, and he heard shuffling behind him. Ratchet was leaning against the wall, refusing to make eye-contact.

“Ten made it.” His voice was gruff. “He’s a new crewmember.”

“Oh.” Drift turned it over again. “So… why do you have it?”

Ratchet didn’t respond, his faceplates turning a light blue.

Drift’s spark rose a little, and he set down the figure, stepping up to Ratchet, placing a single finger under his chin, raising his optics to meet Drift’s.

“You came after me. Why?” He asked, gently.

“Told you. Wasn’t your fault.”

“Ratchet.”

“I… didn’t want to never see you again.” Ratchet’s optics slid to the side, and Drift smiled softly.

“I’m glad you came after me.” He whispered, before releasing Ratchet and going back to the captain’s chair. “Where to?” He asked, a little louder. “I think we both need a repaint, and probably new parts.”

The topic in safer waters, Ratchet came over, bending just a little too close to Drift to be normal. “I know that planet has Cybertronian facilities. We should be able to find what we need there.” He cleared his vocalizer and pointed to a planet about two mega-cycles out.

Drift nodded and sat down, punched in their course, gained departure clearance, and lifted them off-planet. Once they were in space once more, Drift looked around.

“Top or bottom bunk?” He asked.

“Bottom.” Ratchet replied, automatically. “I’m too old to be climbing up and down all the time.”

“You’re not that old.”

“Say that to my previous hands.” Ratchet muttered, picking at the paint on his rather oddly-acquired replacement pair.

Drift shook his helm. “Just because parts wear out, doesn’t mean the mech is.”

  
  
Ratchet huffed. “Your inspiration is not something that I missed.” He muttered, standing up. “I’m going to get this dirt off of me."

  
  
“I’ll go after you.” Drift replied, a small grin on his face. If this was all he ever had, that would be enough.

The next two mega-cycles fell into a slow routine. Ratchet had a surprising amount of non-medical literature in the shuttle databanks, so the two spent much of their time reading. When it came time to recharge, Ratchet would wash, get in his berth, and then Drift would do the same. They rarely spoke, except for Drift to come up with another inspirational or religious quote, only for Ratchet to huff, turn off his audials (sometimes), or begin an argument.

It was _perfect_.

Two mega-cycles later, they arrived at Invatera, where, true to Ratchet’s recollections, there were facilities for both Cybertronian repairs and repaints.

It was a nice feeling, not being dented and cracked. Parts of Drift’s frame had to be completely replaced, but it wasn’t as though he was attached to his frame in the first place. After being completely rebuilt more than once, it wasn’t a life-altering condition.

When it came time for the repaint, Drift had them do some on his face, in honor of Dai Atlas. It was long overdue. The Autobot symbol, too, was replaced on his chassis.

Finally stepping out of the booth, Drift caught Ratchet’s optic. Ratchet, needing fewer repairs and a simpler repaint, had been waiting for a couple of cycles by this point.

Ratchet’s widened optics and stilling vents was all the justification Drift needed as he smiled and waved, walking over.

“Look good?” He asked, already knowing the answer in Ratchet’s optics and aura.

“Yeah. It does.” Ratchet blurted out, turning away. “Ready to go?”

“Lead the way.” Drift smiled.

Their walk was quiet, their footsteps the only noise about them, the hissing of the shuttle door loud in their silence.

And nothing changed. They refuelled, read, and Ratchet went to the washrack.

Drift huffed and put his helm down on the console, waiting until Ratchet was in his berth before he walked past, resisting the urge to bang his helm against the washrack wall. Turning off the solvent and walking out, his pede was on the first rung of the ladder when Ratchet spoke.

“If you want…” He hesitated. Drift paused, looking at him hopefully. “You could stay down here. With me.”

Drift took his pede off the rung. “You sure, Ratchet?”

“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.” Ratchet grumbled, shuffling over toward the wall a little more.

Drift sat down on the edge, testing Ratchet’s determination before lying down, facing him, their noses almost touching, breath intermingling.

“Why did you come after me, Ratchet?” Drift whispered.

“Are you ever going to let that go?”

“Not until I get an answer.”

Silence. Stillness.

Then the feeling of metal-warm lips on his, and Drift’s optics fluttered closed of their own accord.

“That’s why.” Ratchet whispered as he pulled back after several nano-kliks of a soft, barely-there gesture, optics screaming of a helpless, desperate mech with no words to ask for what he wanted, only this.

Drift’s optics opened again, and a smile came to his lips.

“That’s what I hoped you’d say.” He whispered, closing the distance again, Ratchet’s hand coming to behind Drift’s helm, pulling him closer, the other sliding under his frame, pulling Drift to be on top of him, chassis to chassis, as they traded slow, sweet kisses to the gentle hum and beep of the shuttle around them. Drift’s hands began to wander toward Ratchet’s hips, and he was met with a gentle hum as Ratchet pulled back, tracing Drift’s faceplates with the hand formerly on the back of his helm.

“We don’t have to go there, Drift.” His voice was gentle for all it was low.

Drift’s hands stilled. “Do you not want to?”

“Don’t think that.” Ratchet traced the new lines down Drift’s face. “I like you. You drive me utterly insane, don’t get me wrong, but I like you. I don’t want to ruin whatever this is.”

Drift leaned down, pressing his forehelm to Ratchet’s freshly-repaired and painted chevron. “Ratchet, you missed your chance to ruin this when you told a broken-down Syk addict and buymech that he was special.” One hand came back up to Ratchet’s face, fluid gathering in Drift’s optics. “You didn’t want me to come back just as a friend, did you?”

Ratchet shook his helm, fluid forming in his optics also. “No.”

“Then it’s my honor and pleasure to _go there_, as you put it.” Drift whispered, chuckling as he dipped down to kiss Ratchet again, who responded with no hesitation as Drift’s hands began their wandering once more, mapping out Ratchet’s frame with precise detail, learning just how far down that transformation seam went, how sensitive that cable was, and that tracing around that light in particular would cause Ratchet’s entire frame to shudder.

Ratchet wasn’t about to be outdone, however, and after what he seemed to dub a suitable amount of time letting Drift do what he wanted, he gently rolled them over, trapping Drift under his medic frame, settled between Drift’s thighs, one of which was bent up, giving Ratchet easy access to the cables in that knee, which he kissed gently, causing Drift’s engine to purr, before caressing Drift’s finials with one hand, the other moving to his hip and the cables there, kissing Drift all the while.

Ratchet’s fingers, in their deep explorations, caught on a single cable that Drift had done his best to keep secret all these vorns, an immediate moan ripping from him as he arched up into the touch. Ratchet’s hand stilled, before he stroked it again with a smirk, causing the same reaction. Drift’s face turned a little blue as he regained himself, smiling wryly. “It’s a bit sensitive.” He joked, before gasping as Ratchet repeated the action.

“Clearly.” Ratchet smirked, but moved on, still interested in the rest of Drift’s frame, but now on the lookout for other sensitive cables. He was rewarded with another in Drift’s shoulder, and his headlights.

Drift’s headlights, in particular, were of special interest. Drift couldn’t even ask what Ratchet had planned before Ratchet, with a devious smile at Drift, dipped his helm and licked straight up one of them.

Drift’s back immediately arched, moaning as Ratchet kept lavishing attention on one and then the other. “Rat…_Ratchet_.” He gasped out, feeling every cable and wire ending in his frame tingle with charge. He had wanted to see Ratchet go over first, but that seemed unlikely now.

Ratchet ran his thumbs over the now-wet glass, moving his mouth back to Drift’s audial. Drift could feel the warm air on it, suddenly sensitive. “If you want to overload, then do.” Ratchet whispered, and that was Drift’s undoing, as he cried out, his charge licking over his plating. Lost as he was in pleasure, Drift could feel Ratchet’s hands holding Drift through it, Drift relaxing back into his arms as he came down. Looking up at Ratchet’s face, he caught the awe that filled it, before he nudged Ratchet, making them roll over again.

“My turn.” He whispered with a smile, before resuming his attentions to Ratchet’s frame. Seemingly already on the edge from watching Drift go over, Ratchet was already wound tight, and it took little with Drift’s previous explorations to make him come undone with a soft cry, his entire frame going stiff before relaxing. Drift traced his face through it all, memorizing the image of Ratchet completely undone at his hands. He was pretty sure this image would survive even a complete reformatting.

Ratchet’s chestplates slid aside, just a little, and Drift’s hand went to his mouth.

“Just a shallow one?” Ratchet asked, optics soft. “I want to feel you.”

Optics that had dried in the middle of pleasure began to lubricate again. “Yes. You realize I’ll never stop saying yes, if you don’t stop me.” Drift almost babbled, Drift’s chestplates sliding aside too, Ratchet’s finishing their transformation sequence, white and orange sparks reaching out to each other.

Ratchet reached up. “I hope you never say no.” He said, drawing Drift down into another crashing overload, their sparks colliding and grasping at each other.

And, in that moment, Drift knew he never would.

* * *

_Drift came back to himself just as the sun was just rising over the horizon now, and he sighed as his memories caught up with the present. He was not on a shuttle with Ratchet, he was not on the Lost Light, and he was in an entirely different universe._

_“Excuse me, but do you know where a mech might find a good, strong cube of morning energon around here?” A voice broke Drift out of his reverie, and his helm jerked up, optics blinking rapidly as they attempted to clear to focus on the mech in front of him._

_Drift’s vents stilled. The mech scowled, waving a hand. “Hello? Don’t tell me I need to drag you in for a drug screening.”_

_There was no way… but yes. It was the same frame, the one Drift knew better than his own, the same scowl that Drift had kissed away a thousand times. It was, without a doubt, _Ratchet. _Not_ his _Ratchet, but Ratchet nonetheless._

_Drift cleared his vocalizer, searching for the words he needed._

_“No. No, I’m clean. And there’s a cafe just down that side of the hill that should be opening soon.” He gestured to his right, standing up as he did so, tanks reading at 30%. “I should get some myself, honestly. I’ll show you where it is.”_

_“Thanks. Name’s Ratchet.”_

I know_, Drift thought. “Drift.” Was what came out._

_“So, Drift. Want to explain what you were doing out here so early? Or late, depending on your life choices?” Ratchet asked as they turned to walk down the hill._

_Drift grinned at him._

_“It’s a bit of a long story.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Really, this is why I don’t do E-rated stuff. Not that this qualifies as really explicit. It's... pretty tame, actually. Thinking about it.
> 
> I'm still… uh, still going to go hide in the corner now.


End file.
